


Re-adjustment Period

by AlexiaBlackbriar13



Series: Man's Best Friend [3]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Oliver Queen Has PTSD, Oliver gets a service dog, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Readjustment Issues, Sensory Disorders, Service Dogs, season 1 AU, sleeping disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 05:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10456578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexiaBlackbriar13/pseuds/AlexiaBlackbriar13
Summary: Ever since he had returned from Lian Yu, Oliver had been trying to cope with three main issues. 1: His bed. 2: The food. 3: People.Even with his service dog by his side, re-adjusting to civilian life again after five years of hell is not easy for the emerald archer.





	

* * *

Ever since he had returned from Lian Yu, Oliver had been trying to cope with three main issues. 1: His bed. 2: The food. 3: People.

During his five years away, Oliver never saw hide nor hair of a bed. Most of the time he slept on the cold, hard ground of the island, freezing half to death every night; even when he had been in Hong Kong and Russia, he had slept on the floor, or sitting upright, anticipating an attack. So when he arrived home and was forced to sleep, for the first time since the Gambit, in an actual, proper bed, with pillows and sheets and a big, fluffy duvet, he did not cope very well.

He ended up dragging a blanket to the floor and sleeping there, with the window open. Of course, a storm raged that night, dragging horrific night terrors to the surface as he remembered nearly drowning in the North China Sea, and he almost killed his mother when she tried to wake him up.

Then Hunter arrived, and whilst things changed, the bed situation did not. Hunter, in fact, supported Oliver in his decision to sleep on the floor. He yanked pillows and blankets down to the ground to make a nest for his master, and curled up beside the archer, pressing into his back. When Walter and Moira, on the other hand, discovered that he’d taken to sleeping on the floor, they didn’t understand at all. Instead, both of them decided to take turns on checking in on him during the night to make sure he was using the bed. Hunter would whine and snap at them, angry that they were making his master so anxious, but his mother and stepfather didn’t get it. So Oliver was forced to lie on a too-soft, too-comfortable mattress, alert and tense with Hunter whimpering and nuzzling at his shaking form, all night. He couldn’t sleep on a bed. So he went without sleep.

During his five years away, Oliver hardly ate. When he did eat, it was little and not often, as game was hard to hunt on the island, and if they ever did catch something, like a bird or occasionally a wild pig, it was cooked just long enough that it wouldn’t upset their stomachs. They ate rare unseasoned meat and hard, barely-cooked crunchy roots, and whatever berries and edible plants they could find. Coming back to Starling City and suddenly having a three course gourmet meal stuck under his nose, was a massive shock to his system.

The Queen family enjoyed big breakfasts and fancy family dinners, so most mornings and evenings they ate together, and at dinner they had starters, mains and desserts. Oliver hardly ate anything before dinner; he had an apple or banana for breakfast, and maybe nibbled at lunch, but he still couldn’t get down half of what they put in front of him. His stomach had shrunk, so much so that half a plate of food would cause him to have cramps, or throw up.

Artificial preservatives, sugar, spices and herbs were also a problem. Oliver’s stomach rejected all of them, not used to processing it; Oliver found himself vomiting up whatever food he did eat in the late hours of night, draped in darkness as he hunched over the toilet in his en suite bathroom. It seemed to confuse Hunter at first, why the archer kept on eating food and then throwing it up again, and primarily the service dog acted as if he thought Oliver was sick. But at least Hunter was there for him. Oliver was determined not to let his family know; he didn’t want pity, or therapy, or anything like that, so he didn’t tell them, and continued to suffer in silence, vomiting at night and sobbing into Hunter’s fur when his stomach hurt so much it felt as if he was being repeatedly stabbed. So Oliver went without food.

During his five years away, Oliver learnt not to trust people. People were dangerous, out to kill him. Every single human being that crossed Oliver’s path, from the moment he stepped foot in the outside world, became either _threat_ or _target_. And the _lights_ and the _noise_ and the _smells_. He couldn’t stand it. Five years of having to rely on your senses to survive ensured that Oliver honed them to perfection; perfect for an environment such as Lian Yu, but painful for Starling City. Every time he went outside, he was bombarded with bright flashing lights, deafening loud noises that hurt his ears and strong, overpowering smells that clouded his mind. It was torturous. The paparazzi… Oliver wanted to strangle half of them. The other half, he wanted to shoot with arrows. Hunter kept him in check, but it was still difficult.

And people were so _emotional_. So much more complicated than his service dog. Oliver had spent five years learning how to read people and manipulate them, but there so were many now surrounding him, with so many emotions, that he felt overwhelmed. Everywhere he went, there was _happiness, sadness, anger, pain_ , he could go on. But people were so messy and demanding. Dogs weren’t. He could always understand Hunter, and because of that, his service was his grounding force. So much easier than humans.

Take his family for example; his mother and sister pressured him to attend large social gatherings, thinking that it might help his social anxiety if he became re-accustomed to being surrounded by people, despite the fact that Oliver protested many times. They never seemed to properly understand that Oliver _hated_ being in closed spaces with so many people, that it made him incredibly anxious. If Oliver managed to escape early from these events, he went to the Foundry, trying desperately to escape the overwhelming chaos that was human society. He cuddled with Hunter on the training mats, feeling the service dog’s quiet, gentle rumbling resonating through his entire body. The sensation of the rumbling paired with Hunter’s soft fur brushing up against his skin always managed to somehow calm him.

Oliver returned home early one morning with Hunter trotting at his heels to find Moira and Walter waiting for him in the living room. They didn’t ask where he had been all night, which Oliver was grateful for, because he didn’t appreciate having to make excuses for his vigilantism, but the glares and disapproving glances they shot him were enough to make him cower slightly. Hunter growled when Moira opened her mouth, most likely to make some sort of scathing comment, and the service dog slowly sank onto his haunches in front of the archer protectively.

“We’re going out to dinner with the Jordon family tonight,” Moira said, all beams and happy smiles, even know Oliver knew she was secretly annoyed with him. “They’re ever so excited to see you again, Oliver.”

The Jordons were a family that the Queens often associated with, mostly because they did business deals together. Paul Jordon ran a large international bank that Queen Consolidated used to transfer money to assets and investments, and over the years Paul Jordon had worked with his family, they had become close, almost as close as the Merlyns. Moira and Paul Jordon’s wife, Julie, headed the Starling City WI together, meaning they saw each other almost weekly, and Julie and Paul had two children, a teenaged boy a year younger than Thea and a now eleven-year-old girl. Oliver hadn’t seen them since a month before he and his father had departed on the Gambit, and to be honest, he didn’t exactly want to see them again, considering both Paul Jordon and Julie Jordon were names on The List.

There was also the fact that when Moira announced the name of the restaurant they would be dining at, Oliver instantly realised that he was going to have a rough night. The restaurant held five course dinners, with fancy, posh European food that he was certain would make his stomach revolt against him, and it was a large one as well, so there would be a lot of people there. He would be tense and alert for hours. Hunter sensed his rising agitation and turned back to gaze at the archer with a worried look, whining gently.

“That’s great, Mom,” Oliver replied, trying to sound nonchalant and keeping his voice flat. “But I, er…” Damn, he thought he was getting better at making up excuses, even with his mother glowering at him. “I’ve got paperwork to sort out for the club’s construction, so I don’t think I’ll be able to make it.”

“Well surely you could take one evening off,” Walter butted in, his voice friendly but also stern at the same time. “The paperwork will still be there tomorrow, son.”

Oliver internally flailed. “I - no, I should really -”

“Nonsense!” Moira crowed. “The Jordons are so excited to see you again, Oliver! You were gone five years, and we all used to be so close! It would be a shame for you not to come.” The archer could hear the hidden meaning in her words. _We’d be ashamed of you if you didn’t come._

“Right,” Oliver said awkwardly, slightly trembling hand reaching out to grasp hold of Hunter’s scruff. “Okay. I’ll - I’ll clear my schedule then.” He silently swore. There would be no getting out of this one, it seemed. He’d just have to cope through another evening of suffering. Hopefully Hunter would be able to prevent any panic attacks, but Oliver already could tell that this was not going to be fun.

Moira nodded, lifting her head slightly, and with that small movement, Oliver could tell that she approved of him for once. Hunter narrowed his eyes at his mother, his disdain for her evident; his body language translated that he was annoyed at Moira for making his master distressed. “Thank you, sweetheart. Make sure you wear something smart, and groom Hunter before we leave. Oh, and you can tell Mr Diggle he can have the night off; Mr Daley will be driving us all together.”

Moira stalked off without another word. Oliver watched her go wordlessly, absentmindedly clenching his fist in Hunter’s pelt, threading his fingers through in an agitated motion. He turned back to Walter, hoping to shoot the man a pleading gaze to try and convince him to get him out of this dinner, but Walter kept his eyes lowered and strode after his wife silently, only inclining his head when passing and giving the service dog a quick pat on his head.

Oliver phoned Diggle to inform him that there would be no Hooding up tonight, and that he could have the evening off, because he was going out with his family. The bodyguard’s immediate question was whether or not Hunter would be going with him, and the archer scoffed, because he would have thought that would be obvious. He wasn’t going to survive the evening if he didn’t have his service dog by his side. After that, Diggle hesitantly asked him if Oliver was okay with this whole situation, but the archer hung up in reply. Of course he wasn’t okay with it. He hated the entire idea of going out with the Jordon family, but there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was keep Hunter close to him and hope that he didn’t have a nervous breakdown.

Oliver’s stomach was doing somersaults as their family limo pulled up the restaurant hours later. Thea had been chatting at him, complaining about her school day, but Oliver hadn’t really been listening. He’d focused completely on Hunter’s head resting on his lap, blue eyes staring dolefully up at him, and mapping out the patches of brown within the dog’s cream fur. Walter, thankfully, had recognised that something else was on his mind, so had drawn Moira and Thea’s attention away from him, allowing the archer to concentrate on his service dog.

After warm and jubilant greetings, with a lot of hugging and kissing on cheeks, Oliver already wanted to bolt. The Jordons tried to fuss over him, and when Oliver recoiled back from that with a grim smile, they attempted to fuss over Hunter instead, which just made him even more miserable. His shoulders were stiff and aching, and his whole body was tensed, ready to fight or run. The restaurant was loud, as there were a lot of other large parties present. The space was lit with candles, casting flickering shadows that made the archer jump. He hid his hands under the table to hide how much they were shaking, staring directly down into Hunter’s gaze as the service dog desperately tried to soothe him, licking the archer’s fingers and whining. Whenever he was pressured into a conversation, Oliver tried to make small talk, but struggled, talking bluntly and coldly when he had to answer.

Questions about the island and about Oliver’s mental illnesses were quickly diverted away from. Thea, Walter and Moira artfully changed the subject onto one of fundraisers and charity fairs that the two companies were planning. Thea mostly kept the two kids entertained. The Jordon children, sixteen-year-old Jonathan and eleven-year-old Lacy, loved Oliver’s younger sister. Lacy tried to crawl under the table to play with Hunter, but Paul and Julie chided her sternly about it. Every so often, the Jordons somehow managed to turn the conversation back onto Oliver. Oliver kept his head down, eyes closed and breathing steady between replies to try and stop feeling faint. He placed his hands on Hunter’s shoulders and attempted to regulate his breathing to the dog’s. His insides were already twisting in displeasure, making him feel sick.

The first course of five arrived. It was a king prawn and smoked salmon terrine. Attention was fixed on eating now, so there wasn’t much conversation. Oliver looked down at the dish and bile rose up into the back of his throat. He was able to take three bites before his stomach wouldn’t take it anymore. Hunter whined in concern when the archer shuddered, and nudged his legs. The service dog wanted to get him out of the room.

“Excuse us for a moment,” Oliver choked out. He rose elegantly and kept his stride calm and collected as he headed for the restrooms, Hunter nosing the back of his knees to urge him forwards.

As soon as he was out of sight, he broke into a run, Hunter bursting into a trot by his side. The archer threw himself into the larger disabled toilet, slamming the door shut behind Hunter but forgetting to lock it, as he was much more occupied by throwing up what little had eaten. Hunter whimpered and licked at his wrists and nuzzled his side comfortingly. After the retching stopped, Oliver slid down the wall with his head buried in Hunter’s neck and collapsed in the corner, his breathing stuttering and head pounding like a hammer was beating on his skull.

Oliver felt absolutely exhausted. Wrapping his arms around his service dog, the archer desperately tried to shut out all the noises, tastes and smells around him, keeping his head tilted back against the cool tiles of the restroom as a strangled sob emerged from his mouth. Hunter’s heartbeat thudded in his ears, and although it centred him, as well as the dog’s coarse tongue scraping over his cheeks, he still felt sick.

“Oliver? Oliver, where -”

The archer stiffened instinctively, arms tightening around Hunter as the restroom door slowly opened, revealing Walter in the doorway. Obviously, he had been absent from the table long enough that they were worried enough to send somebody to look for him. He was aware that he probably didn't look very dignified, curled up on the floor in a tux with his dog sitting on top of him, but even the thought of standing made his head spin.

His stepfather’s eyes flittered over him in concern, taking note of Hunter’s rumbling and skittish behaviour, and the older man squeezed in through the door, locking it securely behind him. Oliver wouldn’t have figured Walter would do this, but the man knelt down in front of him carefully, reaching his hand out and pressing it to Oliver’s forehead, checking his temperature.

Walter huffed in worry. “You’re warm,” he said softly. “Are you not feeling very well, Oliver? Are you sick?”

The man had unknowingly provided Oliver with a fantastic opportunity to make an escape. “Yeah,” Oliver croaked, closing his eyes as he shifted against the wall. Hunter whined again, licking his chin, and he sighed. “Got - got a headache, not been feeling great since last night.”

“I know for a fact that you weren’t out in a nightclub,” Walter said, running his concerned gaze over him once again. “You don’t like taking Hunter to those sort of places. Why didn’t you come home?”

Great. _Now_ Walter wanted to know why he hadn’t been home last night. “Went to Diggle’s place. Felt a little dizzy and sleepy and Hunter got antsy about it, so I crashed on Dig’s couch. Didn’t - didn’t want to make him drive us home.”

“This is why you didn’t want to come out with us this evening,” Walter deduced. “Oh, Oliver, why didn’t you say?”

“Mom didn’t leave much room for discussion,” Oliver replied, heaving a tired sigh.

“I think we should get you and Hunter home,” Walter decided. “I’m sure Mr and Mrs Jordon won’t mind us leaving early -”

“No,” Oliver interjected quickly. “No, you don’t - Mom’s having a great evening and Thea is as well. I don’t want to ruin that for them, or for you. I’ll just ask Mr Daley to drive us back home. Hunter can look after me.”

Walter seemed to debate this in his head for a moment, before he nodded uncertainly. “If you’re sure, son.”

He stood up and offered his stepson his hand. Hunter instantly stood up and sniffed it suspiciously, but when the service dog huffed in satisfaction, Oliver took it reluctantly and pulled himself up off of the cold floor. His head swam and he scrambled for support, but luckily Hunter seemed to notice he was about to topple over and rushed to provide assistance. Oliver tried to give his stepfather a reassuring smile when Walter made a worried noise, but if anything, Walter only looked more concerned.

Moira and Thea stood when they both arrived back at the table, Moira looking disgruntled while Thea looked more worried. Oliver hung back, trembling fingers placing with Hunter’s fur as Walter quietly and swiftly explained that Oliver wasn’t feeling all that well so was going to head home early. The Jordons looked sympathetic and nodded, waving, while Thea quickly jumped up to hug him, making Oliver wince and Hunter growl.

Walter escorted him to the car and gave Mr Daley orders to drive the younger man home. Oliver curled up tightly in the back seats, head in his hands as the car pulled off into the city smoothly. Hunter jumped up beside him and plastered himself over the archer, whiskers tickling his neck and chin as he continued to whine and rumble worriedly. It took merely twenty minutes to drive back to the Queen mansion, and by that time, Oliver’s head was a little clearer and his stomach had settled slightly, thanks to his service dog soothing him. He thanked Mr Daley and asked him to drive back in preparation to pick his mother, stepfather and sister up.

Oliver and Hunter finally had the house to themselves. Raisa was taking a week’s vacation in Russia and the rest of the staff had retired for the night. His family wouldn’t be returning for several hours, Oliver knew, considering when he had left they had only been starting the first course. The archer internally debated; he could finally get some sleep on the floor, have a nice cuddling session with Hunter on the couch to ease his racing mind, or cook something he could stomach.

Finally, he made a decision. Oliver changed into slacks and a loose t-shirt, shooting his service dog a wobbly smile as Hunter cocked his head sideways at him. He took a quick run around the grounds to try and clear his head some more and get the adrenalin out of his system. Hunter ran by his side, every so often trying to slow the archer down when he got so out of breath he began feeling faint. After that, he took a luke-warm shower, as he could hardly tolerate hot water; years of having to bathe in rivers and waterfalls had taken its toll on his nerves, and even water on the lowest heat setting felt scalding to him.

Oliver dressed again, this time putting on khaki shorts and another t-shirt before he grabbed his bow and quiver, he and Hunter heading out into the deeper section of the Queen mansion’s grounds, into the woods near the back of the property. The sky was darkening, but his eyesight was honed, and Hunter helped guide him through the night, one of Oliver’s hands resting on the dog’s shoulders. The idea of having a fresh, fire-cooked hunk of meat was very appealing, and the archer knew that he would be able to eat that type of food without throwing it up. Even be able to share and enjoy it with his service dog. Within ten minutes or so, he had snared a rabbit, a chipmunk and a squirrel. Hunter seemed to catch on to what he was doing, because the dog began trying to stalk a few of the fatter birds living in the trees, growling and then barking at them; he didn’t catch anything, but it was amusing to watch.

On the open lawn at the back of the house, Oliver started a campfire and piled collected sticks and logs of wood from the woods up. Hunter settled down just beside it, not too close but close enough, and the archer sighed, feeling immensely comforted by the heat of the flames and the blinding light it provided in the falling darkness. He retreated back into the cover of the trees to skin and gut the three dead animals, spearing them on sticks as Hunter watched him with beady, calculating eyes from a several metres away. He returned to his fire to hang them above it to roast. The smell of the cooking meat was appetising and made his stomach growl and mouth water.

Oliver tore the meat off of the chipmunk and squirrel, deciding to wrap the rabbit meat up for later, as maybe he could eat it for breakfast in the morning if he felt like it. After feeding Hunter some of the chunkier pieces of meat, smiling when his service dog wolfed it down, licking his fingers in thanks, he fed himself. He ate eagerly, the meat tender and homely; eating food like this reminded him of the better days he had spent on the island, and gave him a sense of safety and security. He dumped the bones in the trash, knowing that giving Hunter the tiny bones from small mammals like that would not be healthy.

They left the fire burning but Hunter accompanied the archer into the dark kitchen, as Oliver intended to wrap the rabbit up and store it somewhere for the morning. He didn’t bother to turn the lights on, and instead he found tin foil and wrapped the rabbit meat up in it, hiding it behind nameless, countless other foods in their massive fridge, bathed in the fridge's cold, bluish glow.

He had just returned outside, planning to sit by his fire a little longer with his service dog and conduct a cuddling session, maybe risk a nap, when the family limo pulled up and Walter, Thea and Moira stepped out. Oliver froze, and Hunter paused and whined beside him, ears pricking and nose twitching. It had only been two hours or so and they shouldn't have been home for at least another two. Why were they so early? Oliver was so shaken by their unexpected arrival that he was only able to unfreeze when they approached him warily, looking puzzled at the fire and the clothes he was wearing.

"Oliver, you should be in bed, you're not well," Walter said, probably trying to sound stern and scolding but only sounding confused.

The archer panicked. He couldn't think of a good answer. His mind and mouth failed him. "Uh..."

Walter’s frown deepened, and the Brit turned to Hunter instead. “What’s going on?” he questioned the dog. Hunter obviously couldn’t respond in English, but the Husky mix’s ears flattened against his skull. “You’re meant to be looking after him, Hunter. He’s not well.”

Thea looked around searchingly, her eyes dancing over the fire before settling on her brother's face, equally baffled. "What exactly are you doing out here anyway? It’s the middle of the night. You and Hunter are meant to be resting, that’s why you left the dinner early. What's with the -" The flames of the fire spat suddenly, making her jump, and Hunter snarl quietly. " - the whole fire thing? You do know it's warmer inside, right?"

"And in those shorts and t-shirt you'll catch your death of cold out here, dear," Moira continued the lecture. "And it's not healthy for you to be out in the cold if you're already ill."

The three of them looked at him silently, waiting for him to reply. Oliver gaped for a moment, not knowing what to do, or how to explain. He began to shake, hopefully not violently enough that his family noticed, but Hunter certainly did, pressing up into his legs and emitting a low rumble. Oliver thought desperately, fingers tightening around Hunter’s scruff again. He had to throw them a bone, get them off his scent. He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping as he toed the ground, attempting to look unsure and a little vulnerable.

"I - I guess I wasn't exactly thinking straight," he said in a low voice. "Hunter calmed me down and I was feeling a little better, but I - I guess I kinda slipped back into island mode. The only thing that seemed clear to me at the time was that I had to make a fire and -" He shied. "I'm sorry, it won't happen again. I wasn't thinking -"

"I think we should get you into bed," Moira interrupted, taking his hand and ignoring his flinch, though she did look hurt by it for a second, dragging him back towards the house. She eyed Hunter warily as they walked, and Oliver could tell that she was debating whether or not she should make a comment about the dog apparently ‘not looking after him properly’, despite the fact that Hunter had been acting in his best interests. "Some good sleep will help you get better, sweetheart."

Oliver agreed, but he wasn’t going to get any good sleep lying on his bed all night, unable to relax. He allowed his mother to guide him upstairs, pulling to a halt every few seconds to allow Hunter to catch up with them, refusing to leave his service dog behind, when Hunter was the only creature he felt as if he could truly trust in the moment. When he glanced out of the window in his bedroom, his heart sunk when he saw that Walter was putting the fire out with a bucket of water. Whilst he changed into comfortable clothes to sleep in, he noted that Moira was waiting outside his bedroom door, probably thinking that giving him space would be better. Hunter was already sitting in the usual place where they slept on the floor, a pillow in his mouth.

“Not tonight, buddy,” Oliver whispered, shaking his head.

Hunter looked confused, dropping the pillow to the ground and licking his fangs and lips.

The archer motioned to the door. “Mom,” he said shortly, keeping his voice quiet. “She won’t let me sleep on the floor. She wants me in the bed.”

Slowly, Hunter’s ears went back against his skull, and the dog gave a low snarl. Oliver understood exactly what the dog was saying - that his mother clearly did not understand Oliver’s needs, when the service dog knew them precisely. Glancing at his phone as he turned off the lights (it was just a few minutes past midnight), Oliver eased himself onto his bed, tensing and trying to suppress the shudder as his head hit his pillow. Hunter instantly jumped up beside him, crawling up beside the archer so that his head was resting on Oliver’s arm but he was on top of the covers.

Moira knocked gently before letting herself in, ducking her head around the door. “Do you want some painkillers, sweetheart?” she asked softly, looking tired.

“No thank you,” he murmured in reply, turning over so he could flash a weak smile at her.

“Alright then. Goodnight, Oliver. We’re just a few doors down if you need us, okay? You need anything, don’t hesitate to wake us up.” She gave a small smile, ducking out, but before she left completely, she uttered a quiet, reluctant, “Good night, Hunter. Look after him for me.”

His mother closed the door quietly behind her, and Oliver listened while holding his breath to her footsteps as she departed down the hallway to her and Walter’s bedroom. He curled himself around Hunter, mussing his hands in the dog’s fur, eyes wide open and senses alert. Silence quickly fell as all the lights in the house were turned off, and Oliver waited patiently for another half an hour, until he was sure that his family were all deeply asleep.

He needed to get a good night’s sleep. He wasn’t going to get one sleeping in this bed, or now even in this room. It was too cramped and he felt too confined within its walls. He needed to get outside somehow. The fresh air would clear his head and the night’s wind paired with Hunter’s presence would blow away his anxiety. On the balls of his feet, keeping his steps light and silent, he clambered out of bed and changed into lighter, thermal clothes that he often wore for his morning runs, pulling on sneakers. Hunter sat up and watched him silently as he did so, and there was a gleam in the service dog’s eyes that put Oliver slightly on edge. He had no idea whether or not his service dog was going to approve of this.

Still listening carefully for any noises of his family waking, he opened the window of him room and swiftly climbed down to the ground. Hunter’s head popped out from the window seconds later, and then half of his torso; the dog was preparing to jump. Backing up, Oliver crossed his fingers, hoping to God that Hunter was a dog that could land on his feet. The service dog made the jump and landed on all four paws, albeit clumsily. Sighing in relief, the archer ducked down to press a kiss to Hunter’s forehead, and then they both headed towards a sheltered area of the sparse, thin woods.

Oliver had slept outside often when on Lian Yu, when Slade, Shado and he had misjudged the time of day and couldn’t get back to the Fuselage before dark, but that didn’t mean he had enjoyed it. He preferred having some sort of roof over his head, whether that was a hand-built flimsy shelter or a stone cave roof. He would have built himself a proper, more permanent shelter in this area of the Queen’s property earlier on, but having his family constantly watching him, keeping an eye on him, had made it difficult. He had only ever slept outside once, a night around two weeks after arriving back in Starling, after lying to Moira and Walter that he was staying over at Tommy’s house. He hadn’t been alone; Hunter had been with him, so it wasn’t as if he’d been isolating himself from society completely.

It was pretty easy to make a small shelter, just made to last for one night; Oliver found some larger, thicker tree branches and arranged them around the trunk of a tree, piling up lighter, smaller branches and vegetation on top to shelter him from the biting night’s wind. Hunter helped out, finding some of the larger sticks he needed and dragging them over in his jaws, and Oliver made sure that he praised the service dog for every stick or branch he provided. Crawling inside the shelter and inhaling the scent of pine and mud around him, Oliver kicked his shoes off and buried his socked feet under a layer of leaf litter, taking comfort in the tiny sticks poking into his heels and the little stones getting under his toes. While this would be uncomfortable and disgusting for most people, this made him feel grounded. Arms opened wide, he called Hunter’s name.

The service dog poked his head inside the shelter, eyeing it with scepticism. “It’s okay, bud,” Oliver reassured him. “It won’t collapse. Come and lie down with me.”

Hunter narrowed his eyes, but the service dog shuffled inside, ears twitching. He plastered himself over Oliver’s body, providing a heavy blanket of warmth and comfort, and he rumbled deeply, licking at the archer’s neck.

Just being out in the wilderness again, under a tree, lying on the ground with Hunter on top of him, with the wind washing over him and the noises of nature echoing, Oliver felt finally like he had found some sort of peace. He curled around Hunter to conserve heat and finally, for the first night in a week, fell into a dreamless, restful sleep.

Dawn was breaking by the time Oliver awoke. Used to getting up early thanks to Slade and Shado on the island, he blinked blearily upwards at his natural shelter, wincing when the sharp rays of sunlight hit him directly.

Hunter snuffled into his collarbone, and the archer chuckled, scratching behind his ears. “Good morning,” he mumbled. “How are you today?” Hunter puffed, wet nose prodding all over Oliver’s face and neck, making him splutter amusedly.

Clambering out of the shelter and dragging Hunter out as well, he dismantled it before stretching out, doing press-ups and sit-ups with the service dog aiming his close gaze over him until the sun was halfway risen above the horizon. The sun cast light upon the tree-tops and made the morning dew glisten. Due to the fact Oliver was already in his thermal running gear since he had slept in it, the archer decided to go for a run, he and Hunter looping the property twice. Once finishing that, Oliver wiped the sweat of his forehead and decided they had to get back to the house He wouldn’t say that he was famished, but his stomach was certainly rumbling; Hunter needed his breakfast, and Oliver could use some food. He had burnt off a lot of energy last night from keeping warm and his run that morning.

His plan to sneak into the kitchen, grab the rabbit meat and a bowl of kibble for Hunter, and sneak back upstairs into his room for a shower was demolished, however. Oliver stepped into the kitchen to find Walter, Thea and Moira sitting around the small wooden table in the corner, drinking coffee, obviously waiting for him. They all rose to their feet when Oliver and Hunter entered, and the archer paused, suddenly feeling hesitant and slightly distressed at this obvious confrontation. Hunter uttered a soft growl, stepping in front of Oliver protectively,

“Where were you last night?” Moira asked in her no-nonsense voice.

“Asleep,” Oliver replied, frowning, moving sideways and slipping around the kitchen’s island to the sink, pouring himself a glass of cold water. He ruffled Hunter’s fur as he grabbed the bag of kibble that sat on the floor out of sight, grabbing a scoop and pouring it into his dish.

“That may be true, but not in your bed,” Moira responded, sounding angry.

Oliver pushed down the instinct to stiffen at the accusation and turn around to defend himself, instead rolling back his shoulders and plastering a confused look on his face, placing Hunter’s food dish onto the floor as he wheeled back around to face his family. The service dog didn’t eat though, instead angling his weight into his master’s leg with a concerned mewl.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oliver replied.

“Yes you do, Ollie,” Thea replied, her voice begging him to give up this act. She darted forwards and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I woke up really early this morning to get Advil and when I looked into your room, both you and Hunter weren’t there and the window was open.”

The archer quickly glanced at the clock. It was nearing half eight. So he deduced swiftly that ‘really early’ for Thea must mean something like five or six. That was fine. And the window thing could be explained. “I like the cool breeze,” he responded easily. “And we got up extra early to go for a run.”

“Not at two in the morning you didn’t,” Thea snapped.

Damn. Busted. Now he tensed, pulling his hand away from his sister’s. Thea didn’t look angry; she just looked sad, and concerned. She tried to reach for his arm, but Oliver backed away again. Hunter snarled, stepping forwards to place himself between the archer and the people that he thought were upsetting him. Oliver didn’t meet any of his family’s eyes as he opened the fridge, grabbed the tin foil wrapped rabbit meat and aimed for the doorway, planning to just hole himself up in his room for hours with his service dog.

Moira caught his elbow. This time Oliver couldn’t contain his flinch. Hunter jumped forwards and growled, which caused his mother to instantly let go, simply radiating concern. Walter looked worried too.

“Oliver, what’s going on with you?” Moira asked tearfully.

He couldn’t tell them. He couldn’t. “You don’t want to know,” he muttered, pulling away and leaving the room and his disappointed family behind him.

He hoped that they would leave it there, leave him be, but Thea was too stubborn. He continued to his room with Hunter trotting at his heels, gritting out a growl; annoyingly, Thea seemed to be just as strong-willed as he had been that age. She chased him up the stairs at a run. Oliver could hear her pounding footsteps as they fell onto the wood, feel the vibrations under his skin, and her frustrated echoes of his name as she shouted at him to stop.

He was about a metre away from his room when Thea’s hand caught his arm and yanked him backwards. Hunter barked out in protest suddenly, making the archer leap almost three feet into the air. In an instinctive response, Oliver dropped his glass of water and tin foil wrapped meat and wheeled around in offense. He pinned Thea up against the wall with brunt force, using the flat of his forearm. Thea gasped, her eyes going wide and hands coming up to scramble at his arms.

“OLIVER!”

His head whipped around. His mother and Walter were standing, horrified, at the top of the stairs. Another choked gasp from Thea snapped him back into reality and he leapt backwards, releasing his sister and staggering back to the opposite wall, bracing himself against it, trying to rein his anger and the monster back into its cage. Hunter was snarling, but not at him - at his family, who were still regarding him with terrified expressions.

Thea had ran to Moira with a sob and his mother had his sister wrapped up safely in her arms, stroking her hair, but she was still looking at him in - he didn’t know what that was; disgust? Shock? Horror? Whatever it was, it made Oliver shrink back, feeling utterly and completely ashamed of himself. And he should be, he realised. He was so messed up in the head that he could have killed his little sister. He could have strangled Thea, just like he had nearly strangled Moira. Whatever path he was on, he was destined to hurt his family. He had already nearly killed his mother and sister - what was it going to be next time? Next time, would he actually kill them? Hunter tried to comfort him, stepping forwards with a rumble, but Oliver pulled back from him as well. The service dog meant well, but what would happen if Oliver snapped and hurt him as well?

Walter took a step forwards slowly, holding his hands out placatingly as if he was approaching a wild, tortured animal, which Oliver supposed he was. That was exactly what he was. “Oliver…”

He couldn’t stand it anymore. He darted inside his room and slammed the door shut, grabbing a chair and jamming it shut. Hunter managed to slip inside just before the door closed completely, trying to tackle Oliver to the ground, but Oliver threw Hunter off to force the lock on the door closed. Just like he thought it would, the door rattled moments later, his family desperately trying to force their way inside.

Hunter whined, jumping up onto him to try and get him to lie down for a physical comfort session, but Oliver shoved him off. He wasn’t in the mood. Frustrated, he slammed his palms into the wall, closing his eyes as he revelled in the pain. He had to get out. He had to go for another run; parkour would work off his energy and pent up anxiety. Maybe he could contact Diggle and get in an hour or two of sparring as well.

The door still shaking and the chair threatening to give, Oliver changed his clothes quickly, putting on pants and a loose shirt, yanking on his leather jacket and grabbing a duffel, filling it with spare clothes. Hunter watched him but did not try to stop him, which he appreciated. After Oliver managed to pull on some more suitable shoes and collected his wallet and motorbike keys, he braced himself in the window frame again.

Hunter’s teeth caught his sleeve and the service dog growled in protest. “You can either come with me or stay here,” Oliver snapped at him. Hunter looked affronted, offended by his tone of voice, so the archer dialled it down to say softly, “I can’t stay here, Hunter, I’m sorry. I have to get out. I can’t face them at the moment.”

Throwing the duffle down first, Oliver jumped out after it, falling into a parkour roll as his feet collided sharply with the ground. Hunter immediately followed after him with no trouble, hot on his feels.

His new black Mercedes was already parked outside of the garage from where he had left it when arriving last night. He opened the passenger door so that Hunter could hop in, before clambering into the driving seat on the other side. Revving the engine, Oliver sped out of the property and into the city, heading for the Glades. Hopefully, a few hours on the salmon ladder in the Foundry would work off the adrenalin. 

Oliver was on his way up the salmon ladder for the eighth time, Hunter sitting directly in front of him to watch his master, when his phone rang. Hunter immediately went to retrieve it, running back towards him with the cell phone in his mouth. He was forced to drop to the ground, wiping his bare chest off with a towel and cleaning his hands of the talcum powder he used when his hands got too sweaty. Extracting the phone from the dog’s mouth with a muttered thank you, the archer glanced at the screen before picking up.

“Hey, Tommy,” he tried to greet his friend cheerfully.

“ _Don’t ‘hey Tommy’ me,_ ” Tommy responded exasperatedly. “ _Where the hell are you? Your family’s going crazy and your bodyguard is following me around, harassing me. Thea’s called me, like, five times in the last hour asking if I know where you are. Dude, what happened? She’s telling me that you and Hunter up and vanished!_ ”

“Long story,” he replied shortly, picking up on one fact in particular. “Diggle’s with you now?”

“ _Yeah._ ”

“Put him on.” He waited for a minute for the phone to exchange hands, and the second he could hear the breathing pattern change into the one he recognised as his bodyguard/driver’s, he spoke. “I’m at the Foundry, can you get here?”

Diggle didn’t reply for a moment, only breathed carefully, then he asked, “ _Rough night?_ ”

“Rough morning,” he corrected.

“ _Are you with Hunter?_ ”

“Yes.”

“... _Are you sure you don’t want to be alone right now?_ ”

“I’d rather you here,” he admitted.

Another brief silence, then Diggle said, “ _Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen_.”

“Thanks. And, Digg? Bring some tennis balls.”

“ _For Hunter?_ ”

“No, for shooting.”

The phone switched hands again and next Tommy was saying, “ _So considering your family is seriously concerned about you right now, so concerned that Laurel texted me saying they even called_ her father _for help, do you want to tell me what’s going on, or am I gonna have to interrogate it out of your little sister?_ ”

He sighed. “Like I said, it’s a long story, Tommy.”

“ _Looks like I’m getting it out of Thea then… look, I’ll see you soon, buddy, I’ve gotta go. Don’t be an idiot, okay? Let Hunter take care of you. And let your family help you._ ”

“Got it.”

Hanging up, Oliver tossed his phone onto the counter and returned to the salmon ladder. He heaved a sigh when he realised that once again, he had forgotten the metal bar at the top. Hunter cocked his head sideways, nudging his side. The service dog wanted to do a physical comfort session, having a cuddle on the training mats. But Oliver was seriously not up to it. Instead, he clambered up into the Foundry’s structural beams and began doing an intense workout of inverted crunches, pull ups and muscle ups.

He tried not to allow his mind to linger on his family, but he couldn’t help but think about them; were they really so concerned about him that they had called Tommy? Had they called Laurel too? He couldn’t believe what Tommy had told him: had his mother really called Quentin Lance, a man they knew hated Oliver, for help?

“Tennis balls,” Diggle announced his arrival, striding into the basement down the stairs while lifting a shopping bag of newly-bought packaged tennis balls. “For shooting, not for Hunter, which I think is gonna piss him off, to be honest, Oliver.” Then he lifted his other hand to show his other shopping bag. “And breakfast. For you and for Hunter. Figured you probably haven’t eaten this morning. Hungry?”

Oliver jumped down from the structural beam, his chest heaving slightly as he wiped sweat off of his face and torso using his towel before pulling on his t-shirt. Hunter was already trotting over to greet Diggle happily, licking his fingers and enjoying the breakfast that the bodyguard had brought him - some baby carrots and peanut butter brittle. Diggle seriously spoiled Hunter too much. Sighing, Oliver joined his partner at the counter. “Hmm. I could eat.”

Diggle tossed him a bottle of orange juice, a warm bread roll and an apple. Oliver caught them all, surprised. He checked the label on the orange juice; all organic, natural, no artificial sweetners or preservatives. He slowly looked up, fixing a stare on his bodyguard, willing him to explain.

“I’m not stupid, Oliver,” Diggle said, unwrapping a sandwich for himself and unscrewing the cap off of his own orange juice. He ignored Hunter when the dog placed his head on his lap - he could smell the turkey in Diggle’s sandwich, no doubt. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re not eating. You may not have noticed, but you’ve lost weight.”

Confused, Oliver looked down at himself. Sure, he was slightly leaner and his muscles protruded more, but he just figured since he was working out a lot more, he was just working off some excess fat. “I’ve been eating.”

“Yeah, sure.” Diggle handed him a wet wipe to clean his hands with as he wiped down his own, picking up his food. “And you’re throwing it up after, I bet.”

Oliver shot him a vulnerable yet suspicious look. How would he know about that?

“Hunter isn’t subtle,” Diggle explained. “He gets anxious when you eat. Sometimes he even angles himself towards the nearest restroom in anticipation. He thinks that whenever you eat now, you’re going to vomit. It has to be happening often for him to learn that behaviour.”

“I… I really didn’t think…”

“Oliver,” Diggle interrupted, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t. Seriously, just eat the roll and apple. Please. Before you give me a heart attack.” He took a bite of his sandwich.

Oliver shrugged and took a large bite of the apple. It was natural and fresh and succulent in his mouth. He finished it within minutes, starting on the roll immediately after, taking occasional sips of the orange juice.

“So your mother called me.”

Oliver choked on a sip of his juice, making Hunter yelp worriedly, whipping his head around to stare at his partner with wide eyes. “What did she want to talk to you about?” he asked, trying to sound calm to cover up his internal panic.

Diggle just continued eating, not even turning his way. “She told me what happened this morning and wanted to know if I knew where you and Hunter were. I told her you’d just called me and I was heading to meet you.”

“Oh.” Oliver went quiet, beginning to thread his fingers through Hunter’s pelt. Diggle was still treating him the same though, even when he knew what a monster he had been that morning. “Um. Is Thea okay?”

“Shaken, maybe a little upset and concerned, but not angry, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Diggle finished his orange juice and rose to put it in the trash. He stopped in front of him and Diggle’s shoulders dropped as he sighed. “You know they’d understand if you told them, right?”

“Told them what?” Oliver repeated, his heart beating a million miles a minute in his chest.

“That you’re having trouble adjusting.” Oliver opened his mouth to protest. “Don’t, Oliver, seriously, just don’t. I’m not an idiot, and trying to lie to me is just insulting, to tell you the truth. I’ve been where you are, man. I had trouble adjusting and getting used to society when I got back after my last tour, but, _Oliver_. Sure, you have Hunter, but you also have a family. If you explained to them-”

“I almost killed my sister this morning, Digg,” Oliver interrupted in a growl, lunging upwards and stalking past his partner with a snarl, grabbing his bow and quiver. Hunter whined in protest, but the archer just shot the service dog a warning glare, silently ordering him not to interfere. “How do you think I can explain _that?_ ”

“Then don’t explain that specifically.” Diggle stood off to the side of the shooting range set up in the corner of the Foundry, turning all of the tennis balls out of their containers into a bag so he could throw them. Hunter snapped to the alert at the sight of them. “Your mom is already suspicious. And now, after this morning, they’re all pretty clued up that you’re not eating properly.”

Oliver had nocked an arrow to his bow and drawn the drawstring back to anchor point, tense and prepared to fire into the first thrown tennis ball, but he lowered his bow at this, easing up on the drawstring. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, unable to stop the flash of nervousness eating through his insides.

“The rabbit, Oliver. You dropped it, wrapped in foil, when you reacted to Thea touching you. Did you really think your mom or sister wouldn't find it? If anything, that should have been a wake up call.” Diggle waved the first tennis ball in his hand. Hunter’s eyes tracked it, but he didn’t react - whilst on the duty, the Husky mix never got distracted by the idea of play, not when the dog knew he had a job to do. “Ready?”

“Just keeping throwing them, even when we’re talking,” Oliver ordered. He drew his bow again, his eyes lasoring in on a random bare point on the wall as he prepped his instincts for a surprise, shifting his body into an offensive position.

Diggle eyed him carefully for a minute. Then he lowered his arm, dropping the tennis ball back into the bag. “I don’t think so, Oliver.”

“What?”

Diggle had already picked up the bag of tennis balls and was depositing it in the corner, moving to sit behind the computer set-up. “You’re working out, wanting to shoot, so you can ignore your re-adjustment issues. So you can ignore the fact that you should be telling your family, but you’re not.” His eyes flickered up to the archer as he shook his head. “I’m not gonna help you do that. Go home, man, tell your mom, sister and stepfather. Then you can come back here and shoot tennis balls to your heart’s content.”

“Diggle!” Oliver hissed.

The other man ignored him, instead scooting closer to the computer screen and tapping away at the keyboard, researching something. Oliver humphed, slammed his bow down on his weapon’s counter (carefully) and unstrapped his quiver and set it down. He braced his hands against the counter and took a few steady breaths. Cautiously, Hunter slunk up towards him so that Oliver turned and sank to the ground, resting his forehead on the dog’s chest to regulate his own breathing.

He knew that Diggle was right; he knew that he should tell him family, get it over with, try and make them understand how hard this was - how hard they were making it for him. If he told them, that would mean no more fancy meals he couldn’t stomach, no more group evenings out to posh restaurants, no more big social events he hated. But he despised the thought of them looking at him with pity.

He didn’t want sympathy or empathy. He just wanted to eat a meal he would be able to keep down and sleep someplace where he wouldn’t have to be constantly looking out for danger.

“Oliver, they know about your PTSD,” Diggle said, voice quiet, but encouraging. “They know about your anxiety, your depression. If you talk to them, they’ll understand. Truly, they will.”

“Can you drive me?” Oliver asked quietly.

Diggle raised his head. “Don’t you have your Mercedes?” he responded, in an equally-volumed voice.

He clenched his hands into fists, keeping his head down. “If I drive there by myself, I’ll probably find myself on the other side of the city instead.”

Diggle gazed at him scrutinisingly for a moment, before standing and tilting his head, motioning for Oliver to follow. Hunter grabbed hold of the archer by his sleeve and tugged him along. They drove through the city in comfortable silence, Oliver seated in the back seat and playing with his hands whilst Hunter sat between his legs, watching with his head on the archer’s knees. Diggle drove, occasionally glancing to the side to check on the younger man. Realising that Oliver was working himself into a nervous state, Diggle turned on the radio to distract him. The archer shot him a grateful look and hummed along to a nameless rock song, and continued to do that to all the songs following. He didn’t even realise they had arrived at the Queen mansion until the car stopped and Diggle coughed loudly, avoiding touching him since he was so on edge.

It took a tremendous effort to heave himself out of the car. When he saw Moira, Walter and Thea waiting on the steps of the porch for him, something shifted inside of him and he faltered, his knees giving out from under him. Luckily, Hunter had worked out that he wouldn’t be in the best state of mind, and darted forwards to support him; the dog’s weight pressed into his legs, pushing him back to lean on the car. Hunter barked to Diggle, and his bodyguard approached with a concerned look.

“Whoa, take it easy.” Diggle squinted at him, running his eyes up and down him thoroughly. “You feeling dizzy?”

“No,” he replied breathlessly. When Hunter uttered a warning growl, the archer shot him a glare before admitting, “Fine. Yes. A little bit.”

“Well, you’ve just eaten, so can’t be blood sugar. You slept last night?”

“First time I’ve slept in a week,” Oliver muttered back, rubbing his eyes. “Mom, Walter and Thea are waiting, we shouldn’t -” He tried to push away from the car and push past, but the strength left him again when he noticed his family speaking mutedly between themselves, most probably about him, and he fell back against the car again for support. Hunter whined agitatedly, licking at his fingers in an attempt to calm him, but it didn’t really work.

“I’m thinking you should probably take a minute.” Diggle lowered his voice. “You haven’t been sleeping well, I can tell. What is it? Insomnia? Night terrors?”

“The bed.”

“The -” Diggle scrunched his face up in confusion. “The bed,” he repeated, deadpan.

“I really don’t want to talk about this, Diggle. Hunter has been helping me a lot, but there are some things that you just can’t change, no matter what.” Oliver glanced down at his hands, and was alarmed to see that they were shaking slightly. “What’s happening to me? I’m not usually like this.”

Diggle observed him silently for a moment, only casting his eyes away once to check that the Queens were staying away, waiting for them to approach, on the mansion’s porch. When his partner’s eyes settled on his one again, they had a spark of realisation in them. “It’s your social anxiety.” Groaning, Diggle slapped a hand to his forehead, standing in front of his charge and rubbing his temples. “Oh, man. Should’ve seen this coming. It’s a confrontation, of course your social anxiety is going to come into play here.”

Oliver shot him a pointed look. “Stop. This isn’t an anxiety attack. I know what those feel like, and this is not it. This is just… nerves.” He glanced over Diggle’s shoulder again, grimacing. “Look, my family’s waiting… let’s do this later, okay? Right now I think I should probably try and come up with an explanation for -” He waved his hand absently, motioning to himself. “ - _this_.”

“Tell them the truth,” Diggle insisted. “Seriously, you need to get this sorted. You do know people end up with health issues if they don’t eat or sleep, right? You want to run around the city at night, jumping rooftops and fighting dirty one-percenters, fine, but I’m pretty sure that’s gonna be hard if you’re starved and sleep-deprived.” His eyes narrowed. “If this is about being afraid of judgement or something -”

“Not - not judgement. I - I don’t -” The archer swallowed. “They already look at me with pity. Ever since they found out about the PTSD and depression, ever since Hunter came into my life, they’ve treated me like some... fragile damaged thing. Which I know I am, and I don’t want sympathy for that.” He exhaled a shuddering breath, glancing down and keeping his eyes fixed on Hunter’s gaze. “I just want to be able to eat and sleep again, Digg.”

“Then you tell them and we deal with the aftermath later,” his partner answered, his tone a lot softer than it usually would be. “I’m right behind you, boss.”

Oliver calmed himself, forcing his mind to clear and become blank, flexing and clenching his hands until the tremors stopped and rolling his shoulders until the tension eased. Hunter kept him grounded throughout the process, the Husky mix staring at him and nudging him with his nose, nuzzling at his hands and stomach. Centering himself, Oliver strode forwards towards the front porch of the Queen mansion, where his family was gathered, not once pausing, because he knew that if he hesitated, he would probably clam up and bolt. Hunter’s reassuring presence remained close by, close enough that Oliver could sense his body heat radiating into his legs.

Moira tried to come forwards to embrace him the moment he was close enough. “Oliver…”

He shook her head, taking a step back and putting his hands out to stop her. His mother looked hurt and upset by that, but halted her approach, appreciating the fact that the archer needed his space. Oliver already felt suffocated by having so many gazes fixed on him; he knew that a simple, constricting touch would be all that it would take to push him over the edge. He already wanted to bolt, with Diggle’s presence behind him and Hunter’s weight on his legs the only tethers to this place.

Thea looked distraught, wringing her hands. “Ollie, I’m so sorry about earlier. Whatever I did that startled you like that, I didn’t -”

“Thea,” Oliver interrupted, his voice quiet and soft but firm. “It’s fine. You don’t have to apologise. If anybody should be apologising, it should be me. I almost killed you, and for that, I’m truly sorry. I understand if you want to be angry at me. I’m angry at me. But please don’t… don’t apologise for something that wasn’t your fault. It was mine and mine alone.”

Thea shook her head. “Ollie…”

“Why don’t we, uh, take this inside to the living room?” Walter suggested, opening the doors and tilting his head to beckon them in.

“Good idea,” Moira brightened considerably. “Thank you for bringing Oliver home, Mr Diggle. He won’t be requiring your services for the rest of the day so you can have a well-earned day off.”

Diggle dipped his head in thanks, shaking Walter’s hand before making to leave.

“No,” Oliver blurted out before he could stop himself. “I need Diggle to stay.”

Moira looked confused. “Sweetheart?”

Oliver’s eyes clashed with Diggle’s and whatever his partner saw in them then must have convinced him to stay, because he nodded, returning and retracing the few steps he had taken when planning to depart. Diggle was the reassuring human presence he needed; Hunter was his support system but he was a dog, so couldn’t speak up on Oliver’s behalf, and nobody else in his family understood the horrors and suffering that could accompany PTSD. He needed Digg to stay and support him, so that the bodyguard could speak and explain. Hunter would be his rock; the rock that would stop him from running if he got too out of his depth, the rock that would encourage him to keep going, but Diggle… Diggle would be his spokesperson.

“If it’s alright with you, Mrs Queen, Mr Steele, Miss Queen,” Diggle said, always the perfect gentlemen. “I think I might stay.”

Moira looked between her son, the service dog and the bodyguard before nodding begrudgingly. Huffing, Hunter nudged behind the archer’s knees to urge him forwards, and Thea took hold of Oliver's hands to guide him into the house. It was only once Oliver was comfortably seated on the couch with Hunter on his lap, his breathing shallow but carefully controlled, that he began to talk.

The service dog gnawed on Oliver’s fingers whilst he talked, the little bites of pain when Hunter’s teeth caught on his skin keeping Oliver focused on where he was, instead of slipping back to the island. He explained about the bed, how he wasn’t used to the softness of the mattress, how after sleeping on the earth of the island for so long, he couldn’t stand that sort of surface. He informed them about the eating, about his intolerance for foods with strong tastes and smells after five years of such a bland diet. It was only once he got onto the overwhelming, loud, brash nature of human beings which he was forced to adapt to, after only having plants and small animals for company, that Thea and Moira teared up. Diggle added on small points about how Oliver’s PTSD, anxiety and depression were making it particularly difficult for the archer to get used to being back, and solemnly told the Queen family about how their behaviour and the pressure they were placing on Oliver was making it even harder.

Hunter remained quiet throughout the conversation, but at one point when Oliver began zoning out as Diggle talked about the North China climate, thinking about one of the colder nights on the island where he, Slade and Shado had half froze to death, the service dog nipped his hand with a short growl. Oliver winced, complaining, “Hunter.”

Diggle eyed him carefully, pausing in his discussion to question, “You alright?”

“Fine,” Oliver responded, rubbing the sore spot. “Hunter just got a little enthusiastic with his grounding techniques.” Running a hand through his hair with a sigh, he said, “I need to get Hunter something to eat; he hasn’t had a proper breakfast this morning.”

“And it’s lunchtime,” Walter mused. “Perhaps we should eat together.”

“I can make soup,” Oliver offered.

“And grilled cheese,” Diggle reminded him, which made the archer smile - he’d made Diggle grilled cheese once when the bodyguard had arrived early for work and forgotten his breakfast.

“And my omelettes are pretty good.”

Thea nodded in agreement. “They are very nice.”

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Moira said, surprised.

“It’s a recent development,” Oliver smiled. He stood, stretching out and feeling lighter than he had in days, and his hand wandered down to settle on Hunter’s head as they began heading to the kitchen.

“Maybe you can cook us something that you can eat, show us what kind of foods are okay for your stomach,” Thea suggested, before she quickly added, “Nothing weird or gross though. I’m not eating a squirrel or something like that.”

Humming to himself, Oliver started getting out the pans and crockery he needed, whilst Hunter opened the fridge behind him. “Squirrels are bony, but they have a surprising amount of meat of them.”

Thea pulled a disgusted face. “You eat _squirrels_?”

“Yep.” Oliver flashed her an amused look, grabbing the eggs from the fridge and kicking it closed after Hunter fetched the cooking oil. “Had one last night actually.”

Walter laughed, but when the archer turned and levelled him with a flat look, the Brit’s chuckle died and his eyes widened. “Oh, you’re serious.”

“They’re not as tasty as rabbits though,” Oliver muttered, biting back his grin at his mother’s horrified expression. “That meat I had this morning - did you throw it away?”

“Yes,” Moira whispered.

“Shame. Would have gone with these omelettes quite nicely.”

Diggle shook his head, chuckling. “Okay, man, that’s enough teasing. Miss Queen looks as if she’s about to be sick.”

Thea did indeed have her face scrunched up, nose wrinkled in distaste. “Ew. Rabbit.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Oliver told her. “Hunter, grab the ham from the - On second thoughts, no, bad idea. You’d eat it before I’d even catch a glimpse of it. Diggle?”

“Got it.”

“Maybe we should then,” Walter said.

“Hmm?” Oliver placed the pan on the heat, and took the ham slices from his bodyguard with a grateful glance. He picked up a single slice and turned, hovering over Hunter, who perked up when he saw the meat. Oliver fed him the slice with a ruffle of his ears, and the service dog yapped happily in response.

“Try it,” Thea finished. “Maybe - maybe we should try it.”

Oliver paused in his stroking of Hunter, a delighted shock washing over him. “You want to try rabbit?”

“If that’s the type of food you’re eating, then I think it’s only fair we cater to your tastes and needs,” Walter nodded. “Moira?”

His mother shifted uncomfortably where she was seated, surveying them carefully. “I suppose that’s alright with me,” she sighed.

Acceptance. Finally. Oliver allowed a genuine smile to spread over his face, and Hunter huffed joyfully beside him, nuzzling his leg. The fact that his family were going to try wild rabbit for him, to help understand him, meant that they were surely on the way to truly fully supporting the archer in his re-adjustment.

“Then let’s set some traps in the garden and catch ourselves some rabbits.”

“Oh god, you mean we’re going to kill and skin them ourselves?”

“You’re going to get the full survival experience.”

“As long as I don’t have to do the gutting.”

“Deal.”

* * *


End file.
